


Hold My Hand

by shxsty



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Uncle Dante (Devil May Cry), Nero did not have a good childhood in Fortuna, Nightmares, Post-Devil May Cry 4, Pre-Devil May Cry 5, Religious Fanaticism, Uncle Dante (Devil May Cry)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27808819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shxsty/pseuds/shxsty
Summary: After growing up in Fortuna, Nero's left with some less than pleasant memories. One particular night, a memory from his childhood returns to haunt him.
Relationships: Dante & Nero (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	Hold My Hand

With each passing day, Nero feels himself overcoming the effects that growing up part demon in Fortuna had on him. Yet, every so often his more unsavory memories come to haunt him. It’s become more uncommon the older he gets and the longer he stays away but nonetheless terrifying. They usually find him in the form of nightmares while he is asleep and defenseless. This particular night he’s crashing on Dante’s couch after spending the day on a job in the area, nothing particularly challenging, only clearing out some low-level demons that Dante couldn’t be bothered to deal with, but he was still exhausted and looking forward to rest. 

In the dream, Nero wakes up as his five-year-old self in the Fortuna orphanage. The room is a familiar one—the one he shared with the other young boys for the entirety of his stay. But something about it is different. As he pushes back his thin blanket to get up, he looks around and realizes the other rusted bed frames and lumpy mattresses are empty of their usual occupants. A breeze blows through the open window, bringing with it the cold, salty air of the ocean. Shivering and scared, Nero grabs his blanket and wraps it around his shoulders before leaving the relative safety of the bedroom to find where everyone is gone. 

The childhood fear of being left behind or, even worse, doing something wrong makes his chest tighten. He gets punished enough as it is for things he doesn’t quite understand—had only received a thrashing the previous day for looking someone in the eye when all the children were taken to the market for an outing. He doesn’t want to do anything else wrong, doesn’t want to be bad. Nero’s footsteps take on a quicker tempo, and his searching becomes frantic. He checks the older boys’ room, the kitchen, the dining room, and even knocks on the girls’ room to no avail. Just as frightened tears start to sting his eyes and his lower lip begins to quake, a voice calls to him from the front door. 

“This way, Nero,” a man says. He stands in the open doorway, the backlight of the moonlight obscuring his features. “Come with me. We’re waiting for you.”

Even at five, Nero knows better than to question adults; they always know better. He wraps his blanket tighter around himself and runs to the man. The man sticks his hand out, and for a moment Nero’s heart gets lighter at the prospect of being able to hold his hand, but he grabs Nero’s wrist instead with an iron grip. He pulls Nero out of the orphanage, the young boy struggling to keep up with the man’s long strides. 

Outside, Nero digs his feet into the cobblestone. A large group of Order members stand outside, hoods shading their features as they surround him. Two stand with torches, casting everything in a sinister light. Another man grabs his free arm while another tears his blanket from his shoulders. Nero tries to protest, to say something, but nothing will come out. He tries to squirm free from the men’s grips, but they just hold onto his arms tighter until he can feel his bones creak. 

The group begins to march with him away from the town center and towards the coast. An Order member, one dressed in the robes high-ranking members wear to church services, walks ahead of them and leads a chant that Nero doesn’t recognize. He knows it’s Latin, and he should be able to pick out a few words from his lessons, but he can’t concentrate on their words when the gravel road leading away from town cuts open his feet as he is pulled along. Hot tears run down his face as he continues to struggle. 

His panic reaches new heights as he is led to the docks, the Order members stopping a third of the way up on the dock while he, the two men pulling him, and the high-ranking Order member go to the edge. Fear paralyzes Nero, and as much as he wants to kick and scream and fight to get away, he can’t. He watches the the apparent leader of the group step forward and raise a hand for silence.

“We have gathered here under the guidance of our Savior, Sparda,” he begins. “He has given the purest among us visions of the impurity and contamination that festers in the very land He provided to us, and He has shown us that this must be eradicated in order for our wonderful Fortuna to remain peaceful and safe.”

Rumbles of ascent and thanks to the Savior ripple through the crowd.

“With His guidance, we have traced the contamination to the vile creature that stands before you,” he says with a sneer as he looks down his nose at Nero. 

Ice water runs through Nero’s veins. His heart beat is so loud in his ears that the words of the leader begin to sound muffled.

“It believes that it is clever, wearing the form of a child,” he continues, shaking a crooked finger in Nero’s direction. “But it is no match for the brilliance of our Savior! Do not believe the lies that it will spew during its purification and eradication. Trust in the words of the Savior!” he yells to the crowd. They yell praises to the Savior in return. 

All the fight seems to return to Nero in an instant. He screams for help as loud as he can, begs for the men to let him go, promises that he’ll be good and never make mistakes again. He thrashes his arms, which even now are bruising. The men holding his arms wrestle him to the wood boards of the deck. The leader places his hands over Nero’s head and mutters a prayer as Nero sobs and begs for his life. 

The men toss Nero into the ocean, the cold water shocking his skin and its salt burning the cuts on his feet. Desperately, he tries to swim. He flails his arms and kicks his legs in an attempt to replicate what he’s seen others do in the water. 

But it’s not working. 

He breaks the surface for a second before sinking into the darkness of the water again. The struggle begins to sap his energy, and he feels himself get more tired, each movement gets more difficult. His lungs burn from the lack of air, every cell in his body screaming for just one breath. Nero’s vision begins to darken around the edges and his flailing limbs begin to slow their fight. Horrible pain is building in his chest and in his head, the worst pain he’s ever felt. He prays to the Savior for forgiveness for all that he’s done wrong but most of all for simply existing. In a panic, he opens his mouth and sucks in what his body wants to be a breath, but his lungs are met with only freezing seawater. 

And then, 

“Nero!” a muffled voice says. 

He tries to look up, to get his arms and legs to move, but he’s so tired. His eyes slip closed. 

“Nero!”

Nero jolts up, his chest heaving with pants as he desperately tries to get air. He frantically looks around to try to orient himself. Light filters into the main room of Devil May Cry through the dirty windows, illuminating Dante standing beside him with a concerned look on his face. Nero takes a steadying breath and pulls his knees up to his chest. He runs a hand through his hair, sweat forcing it to stay back. Something he can’t quite place passes over Dante’s face before he reaches over to ruffle Nero’s hair. 

“You okay, kid?” Dante asks as he sits down on the now unoccupied side of the couch since Nero has curled in on himself. “You were screaming up a storm down here.” He speaks with a casual tone, but there’s a seriousness that underlies his words. 

“Just a—” Nero’s voice cracks as he speaks, so he clears his throat before trying again. “Just a nightmare, nothing major.” He refuses to meet Dante’s eyes. He doesn’t want him to know, doesn’t want to give Dante any reasons to think that he’s weak or incapable. He digs his nails into his arms to try to stop his hands from shaking. They sit in silence for a moment before Dante speaks again. 

“I get those sometimes too, you know, more often than you probably think,” Dante says. 

Nero risks a look up at Dante through his bangs to see the man looking off into the distance. As if he senses Nero’s eyes, he turns toward the younger man with a sad smile. 

“I can leave you alone if you want,” he begins. “But I have found in my experience that talking helps. I can’t even count how many times I’ve called Lady in the middle of the night because of some nightmares.” Dante fixes Nero with a serious look. “There’s no shame in being afraid, Nero.”

Nero breaks eye contact to stare at his lap, the two lapsing into silence. He expects Dante to get up and go back to sleep after the first couple of minutes of silence, but he stays by Nero’s side. Gathering some courage, Nero tentatively reaches out with his left hand to grab Dante's own. The other man accepts Nero's hand without a second thought and gives it a squeeze after a moment. A warmth fills Nero's chest at the action, however small it may be. After more time to gather his thoughts and ground himself, Nero clears his throat and starts to talk.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while listening to Bottom of the River by Delta Rae on a loop. I love Nero, but there's just so many opportunities for angst with him. Maybe I'll expand on this in the future because I'm just a sucker for Dante being a good uncle to Nero and taking him under his wing. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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